Next morning I arrived safely back at Soest with my plunder and my prisoners. That sortie earned me more honour and fame than any before. They all said, ‘We’re looking at another Johann de Werth!’ – which I found very flattering. However, my commanding officer refused to allow me to swap bullets or cross swords with the lieutenant. I’d already beaten the fellow twice over, he said; the more praise I garnered, the more I’d be envied by men who already begrudged me my luck.
Eight
How he surprised the devil in a chest, while Tearaway came away with some fine horses
I couldn’t get rid of my Jupiter. The commandant didn’t want him because no one was prepared to ransom him, so he decided to make a present of him to me. Consequently, I got a fool of my own without needing to pay for one – whereas only a year before I’d had to put up with being used as one myself. Talk about times changing! I’d only recently been plagued with lice; now I had the flea god on my staff. Six months earlier I’d been ‘boy’ to a common dragoon; now I had the pleasure of two servants who called me ‘master’. Less than a year ago some yobs had been after me for my cherry; now the girls themselves were making eyes at me. It was gradually dawning on me: there really is nothing in the world more constant than inconstancy itself. I must be careful, I realized, that my luck didn’t turn, upsetting my current bed of roses.
At the time, Count von der Wahl, colonel-in-chief of the District of Westphalia, was assembling troops from all his garrisons to mount an expedition through the diocese of Münster towards the River Vecht, taking in Meppen and Lingen, among other towns. The main aim was to dislodge two companies of Hessian cavalry currently occupying Paderborn diocese. They lay a couple of miles from Paderborn itself and were making life very uncomfortable for our men there. I was detailed to join our dragoons on the expedition, and when a number of us had assembled in Hamm we went galloping off to where said companies were holed up (a poorly defended little town – more of a large village, really) without waiting for the rest of our unit. The Hessians attempted to escape but we drove them back inside. An offer was made to them that they could come out without horses or weapons (in other words, only what their belts went around), but this they wouldn’t agree to; they wanted to fight with their carbines, like musketeers. As a result, my luck at storming towns was put to the test that very night, because the dragoons led the charge. It held, fortunately, and Tearaway and I were among the first to enter the place – without so much as a scratch. After making short work of emptying the streets (we mowed down anyone bearing arms; the townsfolk themselves put up no resistance), we then turned our attention to the dwellings. Tearaway said we should choose one with a big dunghill outside. That meant a fat cat lived there, and it was with fat cats that officers usually billeted themselves. So we did, with Tearaway taking the stables and me the house, on the understanding that we’d share any loot. We each lit our lanterns, and I shouted for the householder to come out. No one answered, because they’d all found places to hide. In one room I came to I saw nothing but an empty bed and a chest. I smashed the lock on the latter in the hope of finding something precious inside, and as the lid flew open a coal-black creature reared up at me that I took to be the devil himself. Honestly, I’ve never had such a fright in my life as when that black bastard suddenly confronted me. ‘Take this!’ I screamed, brandishing the hatchet I’d used to open the chest. However, I held back from sinking it into his skull. Meanwhile the darkie, falling to his knees, pressed his hands together and begged me (in dialect) to spare his life – ‘for de love of God’! Hearing him attach God’s name to his plea for mercy, I realized this was no devil. So I told him to get out of the chest, which he did, standing before me as naked as the day God made him. I snapped off a piece of the candle in my lamp, gave it to him to light our way, and he meekly led me to a little parlour. There I found the householder, surrounded by his domestics. At the sight of our strange procession, he too begged for mercy. Mercy he got (we were supposed not to harm civilians anyway), and he obediently handed over the cavalry captain’s luggage, which included a promisingly bulging knapsack. He also informed me that, leaving one servant and ‘this blackamoor’ behind, the captain and his fellow officers were out manning their defence posts. Meanwhile Tearaway had taken said servant captive in the stable, together with six fine horses, already saddled up. These we herded into the house, bolting the door behind them. The blackamoor we asked to get dressed and the householder to tell us what the captain had asked him to do. Later, however, when the town gates had been opened, sentries posted, and our commander-in-chief, General Count von der Wahl, admitted, the general commandeered the same house as we’d occupied. We had to go out at dead of night and find quarters elsewhere – which we did with the comrades who’d been with us when we stormed the place. Gratefully moving in with them, we spent the rest of the night scoffing and boozing in their company, Tearaway and I having first divided up our booty. I got the darkie and the two best horses, including a Spanish one on which a soldier wouldn’t be ashamed to be seen riding into battle. I swashed a few buckles mounted on that beast, I can tell you! From the bulging knapsack my share included various valuable rings and a portrait of the Prince of Orange in a gold locket set with rubies. Everything else I gave to Tearaway. The whole lot, horses and all, if I’d wished to sell it, would have made me over 200 ducats. The darkie was a prize that had cost me some effort, but when I presented him to the general (the man who was leading our entire campaign!), all I got in return was a couple of dozen thaler. We moved on swiftly to the River Ems, not doing much, and since we happened to pass near Recklinghausen, I obtained permission for myself and Tearaway to call on the reverend I’d pinched the bacon off. It was a merry reunion. I told him about the darkie giving me the kind of fright I’d given him and his cook recently. As we drank a final toast, I gave him a fine striking pendant watch that also came from the cavalry captain’s bulging knapsack. I did that sort of thing – trying to make friends everywhere. Enough folk had cause to hate my guts.
Nine
An unequal battle in which the weaker party wins and the victor is taken prisoner
My pride increased with my luck – and led, eventually, to the inevitable fall. We pitched camp about half an hour from Rehnen, and my best mates and I requested permission to go into town to get our weapons repaired. Permission was granted. However, we all felt like having a good laugh, so we popped into the finest tavern and had a couple of musicians come over and fiddle away while we sank our wine and beer. Things were going like a bomb, with no expense spared. Only our purses felt any pain. I went so far as to buy rounds for lads from other regiments. Oh yes, I was every inch the young prince, with lands and retainers in spades and shedloads of money to splash out yearly. As a result we received better service than some cavalrymen splashing out rather less money at another table. This miffed them, and they began taking the piss. ‘Look at those footsloggers,’ (they took us for musketeers, you see; and it’s true: there’s no creature on Earth looks more like a musketeer than a dragoon; when a dragoon falls off his horse, a musketeer stands up) ‘how come they’re chucking so much cash about?’ Another replied, ‘I know: inside every piglet you’ll find a big spender whose mummy sow sends him pennies each week to spend on his mates so that one day they’ll get him out of the shit or maybe carry him over a nasty ditch.’ The words were aimed at me, whom they evidently took to be a young nobleman. I learnt this from the serving wench, but not having heard it myself, all I could do to get my own back was to arrange for a large tankard of wine to be passed around for us to toast the health of all honest-to-goodness musketeers – drowning out each toast, however, by making such a din that no one could hear what was being said. This annoyed the cavalrymen even more, until one of them said openly, ‘Damn it! Just imagine life as a footslogger.’ Tearaway retorted, ‘And what business is that of bootblacks?’ They let that pass; Tearaway was glaring so fiercely that no one felt like baiting him further. Still, the jibe grated, and even
tually one fine-looking fellow said straight out, ‘If these cockroaches can’t strut on their own dung heap (he assumed we were billeted in the town, you see, because our clothes didn’t have the typically weather-beaten look of those worn by musketeers, who spend the whole time in the open), bet you anything you’ll find them in the boozer. It’s a well-known fact: in battle we wipe them out the way falcons stoop on pigeons!’ This time it was my turn to retort, ‘We’re the ones who take towns and citadels. Plus we’re given the job of defending them. You horse couldn’t lure a mutt away from a smelly rats’ nest behind the stove. So why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves in a place that’s more ours than yours anyway?’ The cavalryman’s rejoinder was: ‘If you win on the battlefield you win the citadels too. We always come off best in the field, so I’m hardly going to be scared of taking on three youngsters like you and your mates, even brandishing muskets. I’d pin a couple on my hat and ask the third where the rest are. Gladly. In fact,’ he added with a sneer, ‘if I were at your table I’d back up the challenge by slapping the young lord’s face!’ I retorted, ‘My brace of pistols are as good as yours, I reckon. I’m no cavalryman, only a cross between you and a musketeer, but depend on it: this youngster’s not scared to stand his ground, on his own two feet, armed only with his musket, against a prating swank on horseback like yourself – even one bristling with weapons!’ ‘Whippersnapper!’ the fellow shouted. ‘I’ll teach you! If you don’t this minute do as an honest aristocrat would and put your words into action—’ Quick as a flash, I hurled one of my gauntlets to the floor in his direction, saying, ‘There you are! And if, on neutral ground, I fail to win this back from you, fighting on foot with just my musket, I give you full leave to consider me (and noise the fact abroad) what you’ve just had the cheek to call me.’ We paid the innkeeper, and the cavalryman primed his carbine and pistols while I prepared my musket. As he and his friends started off to the appointed location, he advised Tearaway to have my grave dug. Tearaway spat back that he’d better get his mates to order one for him, just in case. However, as they disappeared Tearaway turned to me and said I was a reckless idiot. He made no secret of his concern that I’d soon be breathing my last. I just laughed. I’d worked out long before how to deal with an enemy horseman if one ever charged me down as I stood in the open, armed only with my musket. As we arrived at the spot where the ding-dong was to take place, I’d already loaded my weapon with two musket balls, sprinkled fresh powder in the priming pan, and smeared the lid with grease as careful musketeers do in bad weather to stop rain entering the touch-hole and wetting the powder in the pan.
Before we separated, our seconds agreed that we two combatants should meet on neutral ground, one entering a large fenced enclosure from the east and the other from the west and each doing his best to down the other as a good soldier should when his enemy confronts him. It was also agreed that no one, either before, during or after the combat, should try to assist his comrade or avenge his death or injury. Once this had been discussed, accepted and sealed with a handshake, I and my opponent likewise shook hands, each forgiving the other for possibly causing his death. The net result of all this immeasurable silliness (devised, don’t forget, by supposedly sensible men) was that both parties hoped their branch of the military would prevail – quite as if the honour and glory of one or the other faction depended on the outcome of our wicked spat. As I moved forwards from my end of the field with two matches burning, I pretended to be shaking out the old ash from my gun as I walked. However, I wasn’t doing that; I was shaking fresh powder just onto the lid of my priming pan, blowing off the residue, and pressing down on the pan with the usual two fingers. I looked up towards my advancing opponent, and before I could see the whites of his eyes I took aim and fired, simply burning off the powder I’d sprinkled on the lid of the pan. My action had no effect, of course, except that the cavalryman, thinking my gun had misfired and would need reloading, came charging straight at me, pistol in hand. Here was his chance to pay me back for my insolence. However, before he’d realized what was happening I’d flipped the lid open and fired again. There was a bang – followed almost immediately by a thump as he hit the ground, dead.
My waiting mates received me almost with kisses. His, after freeing his foot from the stirrup, treated both him and us with frank nobility, even handing my gauntlet back with high praise. However, just as my fame had hit its peak, so it seemed, twenty-five musketeers arrived from Rehnen and placed me and my companions under arrest. I was promptly clapped in irons and sent off to the general’s quarters. Duelling was forbidden, you see – on pain of death.
Ten
The general grants the Huntsman his life, and raises his hopes altogether
Our campaign commander was a stickler for military discipline, so I rather feared the chop. On the other hand I drew hope from being a young man in the best of health who’d always done well against the enemy and gained something of a reputation for boldness. However, the hope was dodgy, to say the least, and since such tiffs were almost daily occurrences an example had to be set. Meanwhile our side, having just laid siege to a fortified rats’ nest and demanded its handover, had received a firm ‘no’ (they knew we had no heavy artillery with us, you see). So our Count von der Wahl drew up his entire army outside said citadel and had a trumpeter once more sound the call to surrender, threatening that otherwise he’d storm the place. His answer was the following letter:
Most Excellent Count etc. I note from Yr. Excellency’s missive the instruction of which Yr. Ex. begs to inform me on behalf of his Imp. Maj. the HRE. However, Yr. Ex. will know how remiss (not to say irresponsible) it would be for a soldier to abandon to the enemy such a stronghold as this in any circumstances short of the direst emergency. For which reason I hope Yr. Ex. will not take it the wrong way if I insist on holding out until I see weapons fit for purpose ranged against me. If in any other regard (his present duties excepted) I can be of use to Yr. Ex., rest assured that I remain
Yr. Ex.’s faithful servant
(name supplied)
There followed wide-ranging discussion in our camp. Doing nothing was scarcely an option. Storming the place without breaching the walls would have meant extensive bloodshed and might not have worked. And sending to Münster or Hamm for big guns and all associated equipment would have cost a lot of time, effort and expense. Everyone was consulted, and it occurred to me that here was my opportunity to get out of a tight spot. All we lacked was heavy artillery, and I devoted a great deal of thought to the problem of duping the enemy into believing we had some. As soon as I’d worked out how it could be done, I sent word to the lieutenant colonel. I’d had a brainwave, I told him, about how the place could be taken easily and inexpensively, but I’d have to be pardoned and set free first. Several older, hardened soldiers scoffed, ‘Huh! The fellow can feel the noose tightening. He thinks he can talk his way out.’ However, the lieutenant colonel himself and others acquainted with me took my words at face value. The former went to see the general in person and told him of my plan, adding all sorts of stuff that he knew about me. Even the count had heard of the Huntsman, so he gave orders for my chains to be temporarily removed and for me to be brought before him. I arrived to find him at table. By way of introduction, my lieutenant colonel told him a story about me: ‘One day back in spring, when this man (“the Huntsman”, they call him) was doing sentry duty for the first time at St James’s Gate in Soest, there was a cloudburst with almighty claps of thunder and a lashing wind. People came streaming into the citadel from the surrounding fields to find shelter, and seeing the hurrying mob of folk on foot and men on horseback he had the presence of mind to call the guard to arms, thinking that with the place in such chaos would be an ideal time for the enemy to invade.’ The lieutenant colonel ploughed on: ‘At the back of the queue an old hunchbacked woman farted richly as she hurried past, muttering, “Damned if I haven’t been feeling this weather in my bones for the last fortnight!” The Huntsman overheard and, happening to have
a staff in his hand, rapped the crone over the hump and said, “You could’ve let off sooner, you old witch! Did you have to wait till it was my turn on watch?” When his superior protested, the Huntsman replied, “Well – serves her right. A month back the old crone heard a man pleading for a good downpour. We’re honest folk – why weren’t we treated to this earlier? Our barley and hops might have done better then!” ’ At this the count (a sourpuss, generally) burst out laughing. I groaned, thinking, ‘If the lieutenant colonel recounts such rubbish, he’s bound to have told the general other tricks I’ve got up to.’ However, despite everything (my introduction included), I was presented.
When the count asked me what I had to say, this was my reply: ‘Esteemed lord etc., both my crime and Your Excellency’s lawful command and prohibition rightly deny me my life. That said, the lifelong service owed to my most noble master, His Holy Roman Imperial Majesty, by his most humble servant requires that I do all I can, within my limited means, to clobber the enemy while advancing the military aims of said most highly esteemed HRIM.’ Here the count broke in: ‘Didn’t you bring me that black man recently?’ ‘Yes, noble lord,’ I answered. He said then, ‘Right, your enthusiasm and loyalty do perhaps merit a reprieve, but you have a plan for dislodging the enemy from this citadel – am I correct? I want them out sharpish, mind, and if possible without killing the lot.’ I replied, ‘The place wouldn’t stand a heavy bombardment, so your humble servant reckons any resistance would soon fold if they simply feared we had cannon.’ ‘Any twit could have told me that,’ the count snorted, ‘but what’s going to convince them?’ I had my answer ready: ‘Their own eyes,’ I said. ‘I’ve been observing their lookout post through my telescope. From this distance I reckon we can fool them if we just mount some lengths of tree trunk the size of well shafts onto carts and have big teams of horses haul them into the open. The watchers will think we’ve got huge guns, especially if Yr. Ex. arranges for some earthworks to be thrown up in the vicinity to make it look as if we mean to dig the weapons in.’ ‘My dear fellow,’ the count answered, ‘they’re not kids in there, you know. They’ll see through the whole thing like a window. And if the ruse doesn’t come off,’ he continued, turning to the officers around him, ‘we’ll be the laughing stock of the district!’ ‘But, sir,’ I countered, ‘I’ll make the sound of cannon ring in their ears if you’ll just bring me a couple of those outsize muskets and an empty wine butt. You’re right: without sound there’d be no effect at all. However, if my plan fails and you do get teased, blame me as the inventor. I’m under sentence of death anyway, so the mockery will end with my execution.’ The count was still not convinced, but my lieutenant colonel managed to persuade him, saying I was blessed with good fortune in such matters and the trick would undoubtedly work. Thinking there might be a chance anyway, the count told his underling to go ahead and make the arrangements – adding (half in jest) that, in the event of success, he (the count) must receive all the credit.
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 24
